Momma's Boy
by ThatGirl
Summary: A class assignment stirs up hidden memories and feelings. Rated "R" for disturbing issues. My first IZ fic.


WARNING: First off, hi, I'm ThatGirl, I always start a new fandom with an angst. This is...um...it. Anyway, you should really read this before continuing. This story is EXTREMELY not suitable for people who are disturbed easily. There are A LOT of situations in here that could very easily upset most people. This fic is a version of my CRAZY and creepy imagination. This won't be your average "depressed and angsty over missing mom story:. Oh no, this is going to be MUCH more disturbing. So, those of you who can't take really serioius issues (and this goes a little farther than abuse) TURN BACK NOW! You have been warned. 

Momma's Boy

The letters stood out in bright white on the blackboard. "Today's assignment: Write something about your mother." He tilted his head to the side and re-read the phrase on the board. _Strange_ He thought to himself reading it over a third time _this doesn't seem like Ms. Bitters's style._ He glanced over toward her desk, but a perky looking substitute was replacing her. She held a plastic smile on her tan face the words "Ms. Jerina" were written in cursive behind her. He shrugged and sat down staring at the board.

"Today's assignment: Write something about your mother." _My mother?_ He questioned taking his seat suddenly. _Well, I guess it is around that time of year. Where to begin?_ He paused a moment, _Well, I guess I'll write what I remember._

"My mother had strong hands. Very strong hands. I remember her long fleshy fingers with short brittle nails, pale and pink. Jagged nails with a little white scar that dotted across the side of her thumb. She had marks, more scars on her wrists. Redish scars like bracelets that must've ripped her skin. When she was nervous, my mother would rub those scars.

My mother was full of curious habits. I don't remember many of them. I do remember that when we watched TV together she'd rub the back of my head and twist thin threads of hair around her fingers. Every now and then I'd feel pain as some of the hair snapped. I still wince during commercials sometimes. I just remember her twisting strand by strand almost trying to pull it out. 

She also liked things clean, so I understand anyway. She bathed me three times a day. I don't recall if I really needed all those baths. And...she had some...fixation with washing my chest. She'd work the soap bar in her hands over and over till the suds bubbled between those long fingers and she'd push her palms against my chest. I think I only remember it because after she'd spent twenty minutes or so just massaging soapy palms over my skin, she'd start to push harder and drag those jagged nails over my tender flesh. I would start to cry. When I was young, I didn't understand the strange moaning she made or why she didn't stop when I started to bleed. Three times a day. 

One time, I guess I was screaming and thrashing too loudly. She grabbed me by the hair and the tight fingers, still with my flesh beneath the nails, dug into my scalp. I bled again. She crashed my face through the hard water till I hit the porcelain floor of the tub. I couldn't breathe. I was little, so I screamed. Soap and dirt water burned my wounds and flooded into my mouth and lungs. I suddenly felt air as she trust me up again. I coughed out the water and the disgusting feel of soap sliding down my throat. My eyes stung against the light. Then I found myself going down again faster through the water, slamming into the tub. More water filled my lungs. Up, down, air, water. I know I had broken my nose. I passed out. I thought I died. Sometimes I wish I had.

There's not much else I can remember. There are nights I recall waking up to see my mother staring at me. Sometimes she'd stroke my head and tell me to go back to sleep. Other times she'd violently shake me and force me into a corner till sunrise. If I fell asleep or passed out, she'd slap me awake. Still other times...I'd wake up and she'd...she'd kiss me like she kissed Dad. Her hands were pressed down on my shoulders as she moved her slimy tongue in and out of my mouth. I always thought it was just a dream, so I'd just lie there in my bed, clutching the bed sheets between my hands. Every time, when she'd finished tasting the Crest off my teeth, she'd slap me across the face. That's when I knew it wasn't a dream. 

I never understood why she hit me. I think I do now. I never kissed her back, I think she was insulted. Then she'd tell me I would starve tomorrow. So after she fell asleep back in her own room, I'd creep downstairs and hide apples and clumps of colorful cereal pieces and whatever other smidgeons of food I could gather and stuff them in my toy box. That was so when I would inevitably do something wrong the next day, I could eat. 

Mom was institutionalized when I was four. My Dad caught her after I was locked in the cellar for two days. I had been living solely off of some crackers I kept in my pocket. She'd kissed me the night before. I was down there because of my little sister. 

SHe was born into the same hell I had been born into. But I didn't want her to feel what I had. I suppose I must've gotten a little too protective of my two-year-old sister, because I wouldn't let my mother touch her. I was always there. Every time Gaz almost got hit, I stepped in the way. I found a way to squeeze between my mother and my sister on the couch so Mom would play with the hairs on the back of my head, not hers. I even found a way to give my little sister all her baths, my mother never even got in one good scrub. And...I'd stay up long at nights to make sure that my mother was asleep before I went to bed. If I was too tired, I'd just take off my pajama top and lie with the covers twisted around my legs, Gaz's crib by my bedside. If my mother did manage to come into the room while we were asleep, she'd see me like that and...I don't know...she liked it I guess. I'd wake up to those hands.

Just finally, Mom snapped completely one day. Gaz made a big mess in the kitchen, everything was destroyed. China broken, swirled concoctions of food and soda and little handprints. Gaz sat there in the middle of it all in giggles. My four-year-old reflexes came in and I tried to clean it up. My Mom caught me. She tried to hit Gaz I stepped in the way. She grabbed my cheeks and tilted my head up to her face, claws digging into my temples. I was lifted up by the neck and squeezed so tight I couldn't breathe or think. The world was just getting cloudy and the pain was so much. All I can recall was a large crack and amazing pain as I fell down the cellar stairs. She dislocated my shoulder, slammed the door and did God knows what to Gaz. 

That's how my Dad found out. He finally took his nose out of those damn experiments and came home to see...something. He still won't tell me what Mom did to Gaz. It drives me crazy sometimes but he always finds a way to change the subject. He opened the cellar door and found me hugging my knees with my good arm, rocking back and forth in the darkness, waiting for Mom to tell me I could come out. The dried cracker crumbs were still stuck to my lips.

They say I still have repressed memories. Every year, like a gift, I recall a little more. Sometimes I want to see and hear them all. I want to know why I begin to shake in tight spaces, why I sometimes feel like something sharp is pressing against my ears; why do I have such strange scars on my body. I hate not knowing. I'm always trying to figure that out, like I'm trying to figure out all the other strange things in the world. 

I have dreams too. I dream that...that Mom is hanging over me pressing her lips onto mine. I still see a glimpse of her shadow bending around the corner, when I'm watching TV I feel her fingers against my neck. But mostly...I still close my eyes and see her strong hands. I have those dreams where they finally put me away for good and lock me into a mental institution...her institution. And she roams the halls at night looking for me and calling my name. And I can't move. I'm strapped into place with a straightjacket and she calls my name over and over and finds me huddled in a corner. I can feel, even in my dreams I can feel, her hands smoothing down my chest and raking her fingers over it and licking the blood from me and I wake up crying. And crying.

That's why sometimes I tell myself I have to watch it. I say a lot of strange things and I know they're all true. They all are, but no one will believe me. The more I talk the more crazy they think I am the more I feel like she's getting a step closer and closer and soon I'll be in reach of those hands."

Dib was on the brink of tears and his whole body was shaking violently. He slammed the pencil down like it was an evil thing. The slim piece of wood was an instrument of the devil. He put his hands over his face and took in a deep almost hyperventilating breath. Dib heard some voices whispering about him.

"...weirdo..."

"...always talkin' about crazy stuff...wonder...writing now...Bigfoot." Chuckling.

"...such a...so insane."

Dib stared down at his paper. He looked at the kids around the room. He re-read what it said on the board.

Today's assignment: Write something about your mother.

He took the three pages and ripped them into at least sixteen different pieces. Dib gained a few strange looks from his classmates but then they returned to their work. He began again

"My mother was a good woman. She had brown eyes like mine and she was very loving. She was always very loving and gentle and kind..." 


End file.
